Battle Cry
by Cellessa
Summary: The Lich King has pushed both Alliance and Horde from Northrend and brought their fragile truce to breaking point. It is at this point that a specter of the past emerges from the shadows, bringing justice with the edge of her blade.


Battle Cry

Chapter 1: The Heir to the Empire

Disclaimer: I don't own Warcraft.

Note: This story is rated M for Mature Audience. It contains violence, coarse language and adult themes. This story focuses on the humans of Azeroth. Sure the other races will get a mention here and there, but if you want to read about blood elves getting frisky with night elves, you've come to the wrong place.

* * *

_The Lion banner Sways and Falls in the horror-haunted gloom;_

_A scarlet Dragon rustles by, borne on winds of doom._

_In heaps the shining horsemen lie, where the thrusting lances break,_

_And deep in the haunted mountain, the lost, black gods awake._

_Dead hands grope in the shadows, the stars turn pale with fright._

_- The Hour of the Dragon (Robert E. Howard)_

* * *

The thunderous roar of war had long faded from this battlefield.

The once proud armies of the Alliance lay broken and scattered across the frozen tundra like dried autumn leaves in the snow. Twilight shimmered upon mounds of broken armour, shattered swords and pools of blood. Where the mighty fortress of Valince Keep once stood did smouldering ruins remained. The sky above was darkened by thick storm clouds and shadows of endless flights of blue dragons circling the field of corpses like carrion.

Watching the silhouettes wheel above him, the once crown prince of Lordaeron waded through mounds of corpses with Frostmourne held fast in his right hand, still dripping with crimson. Snow crunched loudly beneath heavy greaves as he made his way south towards the coast where a man stood staring out into the raging seas. For a moment, Arthas thought that the man stood alone, but as he looked closer, he noticed the charred remains of a woman curled in his arms.

As the Lich King approached, he sheathed the rune blade and eyed the burnt husk in other's arms. "What was her name?"

The other man, robed in flowing blue silks, glanced at the death knight. The very vision sickened him and what as left of his sanity implored him to kill this embodiment of undeath. That voice was but a whisper now, and as a tear drop fell from his eyes, both his gaze and spirit fell. "Saragosa," he whispered dryly, "her name was Saragosa."

"Saragosa," Arthas repeated, stretching out a gloved hand to caress the contours of the charred creature's cheeks.

"Know this, _Lich King_," Malygos hissed, his voice laced with poison, "I have held my end of the bargain. If you betray me, not even your death will save you from me."

At once, the Arthas' hands stopped stroking the charred one's face and drew it back to lift his helmet from his head. Long lifeless strands of grey draped over his shoulders as the crown fell to his wayside with a heavy thud. The piercing blue haze in his eyes lifted as a vacant face stared back at Malygos. "Give her to me."

He hesitated, part of him unwilling to surrender what was most precious to him, but as he glanced down at the charred remains of his beloved Saragosa, he reluctantly offered her to the death knight. Arthas carefully took her into his arms and made his way to the sea. Waves of freezing water crashed upon the death knight, his heavy plate armour useless against the cold. Just as he waded chest high into the water, he glanced down upon the charred remains of the woman and smiled.

As he lowered the woman beneath the waves, the wind began to settle and the waves suddenly became still. A slight breeze caressed the length of Arthas' hair as a shadow began to radiate out from where she was submerged. It was then that a pillar of light erupted from the blackened depths, bathing the death knight in a pale blue hue. It was then that Arthas lifted his gaze and closed his eyes.

"Long have you walked the shadows alone, Saragosa," Arthas began, "it is time that you walked the light once more."

At once, the blue pillar fell back into the seas with a terrible crash, sending a massive wave of light rippling outwards over the water, towards the shore and the fields of corpses beyond. In the distance Malygos stared in wide-eyed disbelief as a familiar sight rose where the pillar of light fell. Her naked skin was like ivory and her long strands of hair like threads of ravenweave. With a silent oath, he raced towards his beloved, uncaring about the machinations that brought her back. Finally, with an anguished cry, he threw his arms around her and wept. With a blank unknowing glance, like that of newborn, Saragosa stared at the other that held her so tightly yet ever so carefully. Instinctively, she lifted her supple arms and wrapped them around the man's waist, pulling him closer to her.

Behind the two, Arthas tore his cloak and wrapped it about the naked woman. "You have best return to shore. These frigid waters will be the death of you."

Kissing Saragosa a final time, Malygos heaved the woman ever so carefully out of the water and into his arms then gazed at the death knight. "Thank you," Malygos called out, unable to contain his joy, "You have brought my Saragosa back to me. I can never thank you enough. I- my entire dragonflight, will forever be at your-"

"That will not be nescessary," Arthas cut in, turning around and began his way to the shore. "It is I who should thank you."

"Thank me!? But wh-"

Malygos stopped mid sentence, his heart falling in his chest. A dull metallic clatter echoed across the valley as the endless tide of corpses that once lay motionless across the tundra began to rise again. One by one the broken bodies stood, their armour still battered and torn, blood still seeping through fresh wounds. The blue hazes in their eyes rose and tracked Arthas as he emerged from the sea onto the shore and retrieved his helmet. As he restored the crown upon his head, he turned to his new army and drew Frostmourne from its scabbard. Raising the runeblade high overhead, Arthas watched as the men and women who once fought against him now rally to him in a shrill cacophony of unearthly screeches. It was then that he paused, taking a backwards glance, past the waves that broke endlessly upon the shore, past the bewildered glances of Malygos and Saragosa beyond the distant horizon.

A smile curled itself from his pale lips.

* * *

"Pathetic," Rivendare spat, dismounting his deathcharger. "People should know when they are conquered."

Ignoring his colleague's ravings, Darkmaster Gandling returned his gaze towards A only be a matter of time before the fortress fell before the Scourge, and in time, the rest of the world.

As the meat wagons, makeshift catapult loaded with plagued corpses, rumbled into place, Gandling threw a backwards glance at his colleague. "I never would have thought that the Scarlet Crusade would have taken the Argent Dawn inside their walls."

Rivendare snorted. "Pfft, what does it matter? We kill them in the field or we kill them in the city. It makes no difference. No difference whatsoever."

Sighing, Gandling returned his attention to the skeletons working the meatwagons. "Fire on my mark."

The skeletons operating the meatwagons nodded and clenched the levers, ready to spread the plague upon the occupants of the citadel. Gandling raised a hand. "And-"

"INCOMING!"

Gandling's command faltered as his gaze shot up. Arching from the walls of Tyr's Hand, seven massive boulders were fired, most probably from the catapults Gandling had anticipated. Rivendare scoffed. "Well, it looks like they've still got some fight left in them."

"Indeed," Gandling conceded, surmising from the trajectory of the boulders, that it would sail over them. Nevertheless, Gandling, Rivendare and the entire Scourge army watched as the boulders soared high overhead, temporary blinded by the noon sun before crashing heavily several dozen meters behind them. "Foolish hu-"

Gandling never finished the sentence as his head flew from his shoulders in an arching fount of blood. Rivendare was faster than Gandling, diving to the wayside and drawing his sword just in time to see the massive shaft of steel impale the earth where he stood but a moment ago. Scrambling to his feet, his gaze rose to find seven figures standing before him, each drawing their swords from earth and their victim's shorn corpses. Each of the seven wore darkened plate armour and each bore the same broad claymore the height of a man, all except for the one that tried to kill him: a short knight bearing the golden crest of Lordaeron upon the longsword.

"Guards!" Rivendare cried frantically, sprawling backwards from the seven knights. A regiment of abominations clamoured about at his summons, mighty cleaver gripped tightly in each of their hands. The titans of flesh stared in stupid amazement at the seven knights, especially the one at the lead with the standard of Lordaeron. Gnashing his teeth, Rivendare raised his sword and screamed. "Kill them all!"

Before any of the brainless juggernauts could move, the seven pressed their assault, launching themselves at the abominations with their great swords drawn back. Though dull witted and cumbersome, the abominations were quick to raise their cleavers, ready to parry the knights' blows. This proved futile as the knights swung their great swords in mighty arcs, cleaving through the shoddy axes, flesh, bone and organs, hewing the abominations to ribbons. In the formation of a wedge, with the crest bearer at the tip, the knights smote through the brigade of undead and charged their way towards the baron.

Rivendare reeled in horror, back into the ranks of undead. "Kill them you fools," he sputtered, jostling past rows of ghouls and banshees, "save me." From the corner of his eye, he noticed a silhouette dash past him and instinctively he raised his blade in time to deflect the crashing blow of a claymore. Around him, he watched as the six other knights hewed his undead in great sweeps, leaving him alone to fend for himself against the lone knight.

"Insolent fool," Rivendare hissed, raising his sword between him and the other, "The Lich King will have your head for this."

The knight faltered at the mention of the Lich King, freeing one hand from the claymore's hilt allowing the heavy blade to fall at the wayside. With free hands rising, the knight removed the helmet from his head. Long strands of golden locks floundered in the wind as the maiden cast her helmet aside, her own piercing blue eyes locked onto his.

The baron's expression changed to that of sheer horror. "It can't be," he stammered, "Seras!"

Those words proved to be his last. In a devastating arch the great blade fell, cleaving the death knight's skull in a murderous stroke. As the Baron crumpled into the ground, Seras glanced over her shoulder to the fortress. Its massive gates had opened, its knights loosed upon the undead. The defenders of Tyr's Hand, shimmering ranks of knights from both Scarlet Crusade and Argent Dawn, smote the undead army to pieces.

The plan had worked. Their small diversion at the undead army's rear had allowed their main forces to launch a surprise attack front the front, an attack that they had advantage of to the fullest. In a matter of minutes, the battle had been won.

* * *

Plumes of smoke rose across the battlefield as pyres burned feverishly into the night. The smell of burning flesh filled the air of Tyr's Hand as the soldiers continued to pile corpses into their flames. Standing atop the fortress' battlements, Seras sighed as she stowed her claymore to its hilt behind her. "He was right, you know."

Heaving a sigh of his own, Tirion Fordring strolled to Seras' side. "Who?"

"Rivendare… the Lich King will return."

The large man froze at the mention of the Lich King, remembering how the blue dragons soared overhead and burned their ships, cutting off the escape of most of his men. Had it not been for some of the mages who made portals to Stormwind, most of his men would have been lost to the scourge. The assault led by Arthas and Malygos had pushed both Alliance and the Horde from the continent of Northrend, claiming more than half of all of their soldiers. He had not seen the scourge move with such coordination and tenacity.

Then again, he had not seen men attack like they had today. Riding on boulders, assaulting from the rear, charging an army at least ten times their own in open warfare. The plan seemed like madness on the drawing table. Yet there was an eerie resemblance in what had happened in both Northrend and the Eastern Plaguelands, but he decided to cast it aside.

At least for now.

Hearing the clang of steel greaves behind him, Tirion glanced over his shoulder to find another woman form up beside him, this one bearing the emblem of the Scarlet Crusade. Her gaze was harder than steel. "The council has finished its deliberations, and has decided that we shall not leave evacuate our lands."

"What?" Tirion gasped, his eyes flaring with outrage. "This is madness! We barely managed to win this battle, I doubt that we can prevail once more if Arthas decides to invade. You must evacuate your people to the South."

Brigitte Abbendis, high lord of the Scarlet Crusade, laughed at the proposal as a grim smile widened across her face. "It has been ten years since the undead invaded these lands, Tirion. For ten years, the Scarlet Crusade has held them at bay. Don't presume to tell me how to defend our lands, paladin. For ten years, we have died defending it." Reaching behind her, Brigitte produced a small pouch and tossed it over to the other woman who skilfully caught it in one hand. "This is all we agreed on, is it not, bounty hunter?"

Seras weighed the bag for a second, then quickly stowed it in a pocket. "Agreed."

"Then be off with you," Brigitte snarled, her eyes narrowing at the other woman in black armour.

Gaping open as if to say something, Tirion found his words fading from the tip of Tirion's tongue as he felt a hand fall upon his shoulder as Seras brushed by him on the winding steps leading down from the battlements. Though entirely clothed in heavy plate armour, her footsteps made no sound upon the stone steps. It was as if she was a ghost floating in the darkness.

As Seras reached the bottom of the stairwell, she glanced to her side, finding six other knights in black standing by, as if waiting for her. One young knight shook his head as he stepped forward from the rest. "These people are not worth saving."

"That is not for us to say," Seras countered. "Only time will say for sure." Seras paused, studying her subordinates face. His deep blue eyes seemed to burn bright like sapphires. "Save your strength, Theadus. We shall leave this place at once."

Another knight snorted, this one was older with a silvery mane. "Have we outlived our welcome yet again?"

Again, Seras nodded.

"Then," Cyrus began, "where shall we go, captain?"

Closing her eyes and lifting her gaze, the cold wind caressed Seras' pale skin as she bathed in the dim glow of moonlight. Slowly she opened them, though her gaze still seemed distant as if looking at another place. "To the capital," she said, "it is time we went back home."


End file.
